


Vacation

by violetnyte



Series: Replacement [4]
Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Civilian Clothes, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romantic Fluff, Shore Leave, accidental feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetnyte/pseuds/violetnyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Praxis and Deimos go to Earth on some shore leave, lots of fluff and smut ensues. Some accidental feelings since, hey, that's what I do. Praxis POV, possible Deimos POV as well if I feel like it, part of a series but can be read separately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Replacement series but pretty much entirely standalone so there's no need to read any of that feels-intensive heartbreak if you don't want to. The short summary version is that Praxis and Deimos have been through a lot of heartbreak and angst but now they're together

It’s a week of leave, better for the colonists since they’re closer, the shuttle tickets are cheaper, everyone’s mood lightening at the announcement. It’s the waiting that’s the worst, the anticipation for some, scrambling to make plans and travel arrangements, getting bags packed up for the trip. I wait until I’m sure, as long as I dare to wait, before I ask him.

We’re sitting in the storage room, dressed back into our clothes but reluctant to leave, the smell of sweat and sex still in the air, still clinging to the soft dusty hue of his skin when I kiss his neck, mouth at the beat of his pulse, so that he hums and breathes softly, the air trembling so it’s almost a laugh.

I run my hand through his hair, pulling aside his bangs so that I can see the soft flush across his cheeks, the almost shyness in the way he lowers his head while tipping into my touch at the same time. Even though we just did it, I could easily strip him down again, run my hands all over his body, kiss the places where he needs kissing. It makes my mouth hot against his skin, eager, so I lick his neck and almost bite, nipping just enough to make him gasp.

He splays a hand against my chest, pushing at me just slightly. There’s almost a smile on his face, chin tight against his chest and shoulders raised, cringing in a way that’s so shy and reserved because he gets flustered sometimes, unsure of me, of us. I don’t mind, not with the taste of him still across the back of my tongue, the sound of his breathless little cries still in the air.

I pull away, let him calm down, let us both calm down since I’ve got half an erection tenting my pants. He looks up and sideways at me, still flustered, tucking his hands between his knees so he looks even smaller, even more precious.

It just blurts out of me, not exactly like I’d practiced, but I’m suddenly nervous about what he’ll say, so overwhelmed by how much I want him to say yes. “Do you want to come with me on leave?”

It startles him, makes his back stiffen so that he stops slumping, stops looking small and starts looking tough. Sometimes I’m not sure what I’ve said or done to make him go on edge like this. He starts to frown, mouth twisting, not saying anything because he rarely does.

“You don’t have to,” I say quickly. “If you already have plans. I’m sure your family will want to see you.”

It was the wrong thing entirely to say. I see it in the quick, twitching flash of bitterness and anger, the way he starts to scowl, less confused now and more frustrated, like he gets sometimes when he can’t understand something. I don’t know if this means Deimos doesn’t have a family, or if he’s sure they won’t want to see him.

“You should come with me,” I say, trying to sound light. Trying to make it sound more appealing, more fun. I don’t want to sound desperate, don’t want to let him know how much I’ll miss him otherwise, how I’ll spend the whole week thinking of him if he isn’t with me, like I always think about him when we’re apart. My life is just a strung together series of stolen moments, times when we can be together. And then I add, quietly, softly, “I’d like it if you did.”

I think maybe it won’t work, maybe it’ll backfire, but it doesn’t. Pink brushes over his cheeks, makes him almost start to smile. He hunches his shoulders, sort of shrugging, sort of agreeing, maybe confused again about why I’d want him along.

“I’m going Earthside,” I say. “Have you been?” Because he’s clearly from the colonies, with the way he and Cain look and talk, the slight, not even anything accent to his words sometimes.

It gets his attention, makes his eyes widen. He shakes his head, quick, then again, slow. “Never,” he says, speaking in his beautiful hushed voice when I don’t expect him to. “Want to.” And the smile, which wasn’t even much of a smile to begin with, slides from his face. His gaze drops, his shoulders droop, all of him wilting down so that I realize he’s going to refuse. “Can’t,” he says.

“I’ll buy your ticket,” I say quickly. I’d been wondering if it would be an issue.

Makes him scowl, glance up at me, say, “No.”

“Deimos.” I put my fingers through his hair, petting at him until he relaxes, stops glaring, starts to look sweet again. “I’d really like to spend the time with you. Let me buy your ticket. Consider it a birthday present if you have to.”

“Not my birthday,” he says. But with the corner of his mouth twitching up, grey eyes soft so I know he’s about to give in, about to let me be nice to him.

“Christmas present, then.” I kiss the side of his head, nudging him with it so he sways, nudges me back. Puts his arm around me, hugs me, so my chest gets tight.

“Not Christmas either,” he says.

“Well. Didn’t get you anything last year, so. Sorry it’s late.”

His arms tighten, the top of his head butting up against my chin as he scoots even close, almost in my lap, putting his sweet mouth into my ear so his breath tickles, so the words can be quieter than air, so they’re not even anything. “Didn’t get you anything either.”

He straddles my lap, slim thighs pressed close, hands on my shoulders so I have to tip my face up to see him. He lowers over me, kissing me, deep and slow, bold in a way he often isn’t. His fingers curl through the back of my neck, plucking and combing my hair. “Sorry it’s late,” he says, with the most delicious, teasing little smile.

I set my hands on his hips, cup the firm curve of his ass. He kisses me again, pulls my face close to his, runs his hands over my shoulders and then slides them under my jacket, exploring and teasing so that we’re both flushed, a bit breathless. He leans back, looks at me, smiling with a glint of wickedness, no longer being shy because he knows what he wants, knows what he’s doing.

He slips from my lap, kneels on the floor. I scoot toward the edge of the storage crate, fumble my hands over the clasp of my belt, the fastenings of my pants. He makes it difficult by plucking at me, rubbing my thighs, rubbing himself against me, pushing up the hem of my shirt to kiss my belly, the trailing line of dark hair that leads down into my waistband. His little hands fold over mine, smooth and steady, making quick work of the obstacles.

He pushes the fabric down, gets my cock out to stroke. He’s got small hands, slim little fingers, so precious and fragile with a sharp edge, all spun glass and beauty. He looks at me, eyes bright, the grey of them soft, gentle, something of a smile as he lowers his head, licks and nuzzles, teasing me. The stroke of his tongue is rough textured with a smooth motion, wet and heat, rubbing his lips and face against my cock, so there’s this wildness of watching him close his eyes, seeing the dribbling wet pre-cum smear over his smile.

“Deimos,” I say, unashamedly begging him with it, like I didn’t just come twice in him already. He is so hot, so much heat, tight and supple, fuck, I’m always hard for him and he knows it, knows he can play with me as long as he wants, until I’ll beg him more.

He pushes a hand against my hip, thumb working a circle into my skin, still just rubbing and nuzzling rather than kissing and sucking. He slowly moves his hand, curls it over the base, brings his lips to the tip and lets me sample the wet heat of him. Small, puckering kind of nips, until I lose control and buck forward, thrust toward him, eager for him. It makes him smile, look up at me.

“Tsk,” he says, clicking his tongue. The gesture flicks against my cock, so that I suck in a gasp and force myself still. He smiles again, wider, closes his eyes and swallows me in one long, slow, smooth dip of his head.

It’s so good, he’s so good, I nearly pop right there, balls tight and breath ragged. He’s got his tongue against me, stroking, moving along the shaft and across the head. He’s wet and heat, irresistible. I put my hand against the back of his head, not pushing, just holding him there, because he likes when I do that for him. I thrust toward him only slightly, only when he pulls away, never demanding more than he’s giving but letting him know I like it, that I’m eager for him, that he’s making me feel good.

He hums, slightly, soft little noises that aren’t words. Eyes still closed, face almost serene, so that he’s beautiful and so sexy, so fucking hot with the way he’s sucking my cock, the way he takes me all the way down without flinching. He’s so good at this, so unbelievably good.

I tell him that, tell him, “Aah, Deimos! Fuck, baby, so good.”

Makes him hum again, happily, working his hand against me now with, slicking his saliva over me. He squeezes my balls so that I jump, hiss, say, “Fuck!” And he laughs, not making any noise with it but amused all the same.

He swirls his tongue over the head, flicks the tip into the salty slit, slides his lips all the way down again. He pulls at me, coaxing, increasing the pace of his hand and mouth. He gets his whole body into it, arching toward me, one hand against my thigh, kneading deep into the muscle, the other squeezing and stroking my cock.

I roll my shoulders, groan, getting closer now that he’s going faster. It’s harder to keep still now, hips rocking forward to match his rhythm, relishing the tight heat of him, remembering the sweet feel of being inside him, joining our bodies together, moving into him and tasting his soft little cries on my lips. “Oh, fuck, baby, I’m—“

He hums, encouraging, so that I pet his hair in a way that’s almost frantic, combing the dark strands, fingers twitching so that I have to stop before I pull hard, accidentally hurt him. I put my hand on his shoulder instead, where I can dig in and not worry so much, not bother him with it, getting so tight and hard all over because of what he’s doing, how unbelievably good he is.

And I’m watching him, watching the bob of his dark head into me, the flex of his slim little hand against my cock, the way he slides out and back in again, wet heat, tight flesh, lips tucked over his teeth so he can pretend to bite. He kneads at my thigh, no doubt exactly fucking aware of how close I am, what he’s doing to me, unrelenting so I know he wants me to.

“Gonna—“ I gasp, tighten my hand on his shoulder, everything tense as the pressure builds past the point of no return. “Aah!” Like one of his noises, the things he says that aren’t anything, just wordless shouting as it’s white heat, lightning, tension unleashing and everything tumbling. I thrust into him, hips jerking in a way that’s helpless because I can’t stop them, can’t think, everything beautiful.

He swallows at first and then pulls back, holds the base of my twitching cock, lets me see the spurts go over his face. It’s all the fucking hotter and I come hard, shake with it, whisper, “Oh, fuck!” in a way that’s strangled, tight like the heat of him.

I’m breathless afterward, chest heaving, mesmerized by the look of him kneeling there between my legs, the sweetness of his closed eyes and the way he gently kisses the sated softness of my cock. He has my come on his face still, on his cheek, and I reach my hand down, cup his face, rub my thumb through the smear. He smiles, opens his eyes so it’s wicked, turns his mouth into my hand and licks my thumb. And it’s hot, unbelievably hot, because of his smile, the soft sheen of his eyes.

He gets to his feet, hand braced against my knee. He starts to just rub his face into the inside of his elbow, but I catch his hand, stop him, quickly shrug out of my jacket and then take off my shirt. I pull him by the hand, so he’s between my thighs, tucked close. I wipe the back of my shirt over his face, scrubbing his cheeks, making him scrunch up his face and smile.

“I love my present,” I tell him, when my orgasm-shocked brain can form words again. “Can’t wait for this year’s.”

“Aah,” he says. He leans close, nudges his nose behind my jaw, kisses the crest of my ear. He presses his forehead into mine, his bangs tickling, breath soft against me. Speaks sweetly, his pretty little voice hardly more than air. “Me too.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an insert chapter that I didn't write originally because I was still working on Phoenix. What used to be Chapter 2 has been shifted one chapter over. Sorry for the possible confusion!

It’s not that I mind Deimos is friends with Cain, it’s that I hate it. No, it’s not even that, it’s that I hate Cain, he’s just so smug and arrogant, cares so much about seeming like the toughest guy around that I hate it, hate him, hate that Deimos always follows him around with such eagerness. And it doesn’t help, doesn’t help at all, that I know he’s had to overcome such difficulty with how he feels for Cain, his precious  _Sacha_ , so that it’s all I can do to keep a civil tone when I’m forced into the same section of the station as him.

And it’s one of those times, because Deimos was sitting with Cain at lunch and I’m too stubborn about it to sit somewhere else, needing to prove too much of a point because it’s always near coming to blows between Cain and I even after everything terrible that happened on the Sleipnir and everything wonderful that’s happened now that we’re all back on the station.

I know better than to keep Deimos away from Cain, to make Deimos pick between us. I wouldn’t do that to him, wouldn’t hurt him like that even though I’ve wanted to plenty of times. It’s enough that Deimos loves me, tells me sometimes and shows me often, isn’t in love with Sacha anymore, certainly isn’t in love with Cain.

I set my tray down, try not to make a mess of things, try not to seem like it’s as petty as it is when I sit next to Deimos, opposite Cain, so he just has to glare at me and not say anything. That’s how it is between Cain and I, a lot of not talking to each other with Deimos stuck between us. It makes him nervous, I can tell, with the quick way his soft, pretty grey eyes shift around before falling into his lunch, sticking there like smashed together nutrients are somehow more fascinating than either of us. They’re certainly safer, he doesn’t have to worry that the colorless lumps on his plate are going to make things awkward for him.

Cain’s brows pull down into a tight scowl. I see the exact moment he chooses to ignore me rather than acknowledge that I’ve come and crashed their meal. Often it seems like a race to see which of us can get to the mess hall before the other. Often if I manage to get next to Deimos on the fighters’ half of the room first, Cain sulks next to his navigator, something dark and unwanted, making all of them nervous, making it so Abel spends half the time eating and half the time watching Cain.

Obviously Deimos isn’t going to say anything to smooth over the palpable awkwardness. I’m not sure if they were talking before I plunked down into my seat, or if it was more the case of Cain talking and using Deimos as an unwitting but willing sounding board. From the hunched set of Deimos’ thin shoulders, I bet they were talking, maybe about me, or at least something close enough related that Deimos feels guilty about it, feels like he has to be even quieter than normal. I’m getting better at understanding Deimos even when he doesn’t say anything.

Cain stabs at the pale fluff of what’s supposedly mashed potatoes. “Anyway, I won’t be there the last few days, but Natasha won’t mind if you stick around. You can take the baby’s room unless the damn thing comes early.”

Deimos is so tight and tense that his small, helpless little shrug looks painful, isn’t much of anything. “Can’t,” he says. Whispering, and not just because he has to. Won’t look at me, won’t look at Cain, the tips of his ears bright red and mouth pulled down because he’s miserable about denying Cain anything.

“What do you mean?” Cain scoffs, like it’s so fucking inconceivable to him that Deimos might have other plans for his life besides following him around all the time. “You’re sure as hell not going home on leave.”

He might as well have slapped Deimos for how the small fighter flinches, hunches further into his seat. I’m more interested in the way Cain says it, not just the sneering scorn but also the underlying concern that makes me wild with curiosity, seething with envy. It’s just something else about Deimos that Cain knows and I don’t, because Cain’s known him longer.

And maybe Deimos told him, maybe Deimos used to tell him a lot of things, because Cain knew him before he lost his voice, before some monster I wish I could kill beat all the words out of him, held him down and throttled him, put such a fear into him that I think he still has nightmares about it, comes awake gasping, straining like he’s forgotten how to breathe, like he’s forgotten that he can breathe. Nights that I’m almost too scared to comfort him, mornings where I go out of my way to make him talk just so I can tell him how pretty he sounds, how much I love the rarity and sweetness of his voice, the simple and direct way he says things.

Deimos shrugs again. “Not,” he says. Defensive about it, maybe a little offended, all that scowling bitterness that makes me burn with insatiable curiosity.

“Then don’t be stupid,” says Cain. “Shuttle tickets are cheaper when you get them early, so don’t dick around. I’ve already got mine.”

“Deimos already has his, too,” I say. It makes Cain look at me, makes him have to stop pretending I don’t exist.

Frantic about it, not even trying to be subtle, Deimos knocking his knee against my leg. I don’t like that, don’t like that he wants to keep this a secret from Cain, like I’m something he needs to keep hidden. I have to remind myself to stay calm, to not pick a fight with Cain even though he makes it so easy. Hurting Cain only means I’ll hurt Deimos, and it doesn’t matter since I’ve already won in the way that counts. Deimos won’t back out of our plans, not now that I’ve already bought his ticket, not now that he’s already promised to go. Deimos might be some things, but he’s unflinchingly honest. He’s never once lied to me, never broke a promise.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Cain. Nasty, so I’m pretty sure he’s already figured it out, inexplicably jealous because he’s such an asshole all the time.

Deimos just shrugs, and I mimic the gesture just to make Cain angrier. It’s a bit perfect that way, keeping quiet so I don’t upset Deimos, getting to piss Cain off by not giving him any answers.   

“Myshonok,” he snaps. Snipping at Deimos like always, pushing him around because he can, drives me crazy but I know better than to interfere.

Deimos scowls at his food. He nudges me with his knee again, different about it. He’s so quiet that I have to work twice as hard to understand him, have to love him twice as much for it. He’s trying to tell me that he doesn’t want to explain it to Cain, wants me to do it instead. He’s done talking, given up whispering.

I don’t mind. The opposite in fact, I love getting to look at Cain and say, “Deimos is coming with me on leave.”

His face twists up in a way that’s angry, in a way that’s ugly with how jealous he gets, how much he has to own Deimos completely because it’s been like that between them for so long. He stands up, quick, the motion so sharp that Deimos flinches, that I grip my fork like maybe I’ll put it into Cain’s eye, see how he likes being the butt of a lot of bad Cyclops jokes.

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” says Cain. He’s sneering it, looking down at Deimos with such scorn that I’m furious, that it takes all my self-control to sit still and not say anything.

Deimos just shrugs, moving his shoulders together and apart in a way that’s heartbreakingly small.

I think Cain’s through, but he isn’t, he always has to get in one last jab, especially when I’m around to see how he can treat Deimos, how he can get away with treating Deimos because that’s how it is been them. I can’t do anything about it, either, just have to sit there when Cain rolls his eyes and says, “You’re such a mess, kiddo.”

He leaves, taking his tray with him, so Deimos just sits there very small and doesn’t move, doesn’t look up from the floor. We eat in silence, because I don’t know what to say. I am so angry. Not at Deimos, it’s not his fault although sometimes I think he should stand up to Cain more, set some boundaries between them. I’m mad at Cain. It’s easy to be mad at Cain.

Deimos clears his plate, starts to collect his tray. I hurry through the last bites of my lunch and do it for him, stack our dishes together and put both trays away. He follows after me, a little grey shadow with downcast eyes. He gets a bit too close, plucks his little fingers into my side, kind of clawing at me, kind of clutching at me, so I know he’s upset, that he needs me, wants me to go with him somewhere we can be alone.

Finding time together is both harder and easier on the station compared to the Sleipnir. We’re both a bit busier, more to do, but there’s more places we’ve found where no one else goes. It’s easy now just to take him back to my room. I know Ethos will be out, he’s been working long hours with Abel on a project, which has only made Cain even more insufferable.

Deimos gets on me the second the door closes. His little hands sliding under my shirt, wanting my skin against his fingers. He presses close, so close, so needy and affectionate that it’s one of those times I’m overwhelmed by him. I run my hand through his hair, marveling at the shine and gleam of it, the way it’s so soft and glossy, delicate like the rest of him. He is so pretty, so tough, lean lines and soft eyes, beautiful mouth. I feel warm all over, warm against him.

“Sorry,” he says. Softly, quietly, even for him, so I think I might not have heard it at all.

“Hmm?” Something noncommittal. Seems safer than asking what he’s sorry about, so if I did hear him wrong it won’t start anything.

“Have to go,” he says. And then pushes at me, pushes me away from him, face turned and looking so small.

“What?” So maybe I thought he wanted something else. We could have hugged in any little nook of the station between the mess hall and my dorm. I took him to a place with a bed for a reason.

But I can’t say that, can’t let him know what I’m thinking, because if Deimos just needed some affection, someone being nice to him to counter Cain’s vileness, that’s fine. I’m not upset. Just half-hard and wanting, heart aching for him because he’s just so warm, so sweet.

He shrugs some, still not looking at me. “Sorry.”

I have to be hasty, have be sweet back to him. I run the back of my hand over the side of his face, pressing at his cheeks with my knuckles. “I’m glad you’re coming with me,” I say. “It’ll be fun.”

His shoulders go up and down. He’s still tense, looking small, probably torn up inside over Cain’s disapproval. I feel a flash of impatience, of irritation. Not with Deimos, would never, not when he’s so sweet, but with the fact I have to wait, that we’re not leaving the station right this second. It’ll be good for him to get away from Cain, from everything, the stares of the others fighters, the aggression and pointless bravado. I hate having to wait like this, but I think it’ll be worth it, because he’s always worth it. 


	3. Chapter 3

We both wear our fatigues on the first shuttle. All of us do, the shuttle’s full of pilots and navigators, some of the teams seated together, some not. It’s rows of three down either side, so we sit with Ethos, him up against the window, Deimos in the middle, and me at the aisle so I can get my long legs in a way that’s more comfortable.

I sleep for most of the flight, tossing fitfully because it’s not exactly comfortable, hearing Ethos’ whispering excitedly to Deimos about his cozy family life on Earth. I should have thought to tell my navigator that Deimos either doesn’t have a family or doesn’t want to see them. He doesn’t look bothered by it, doesn’t look to be hurting, so I try to sleep because I couldn’t last night, too excited like being little and waiting for Christmas morning. Deimos puts his hand in mine, just briefly, touches my leg, for a moment, so every time I sort of wake up he isn’t looking at me, but it’s sweet all the same.

“Are you going Earthside, too?” asks Ethos, when we’re off the shuttle and at the colony port, crowds streaming around us either heading for the exit or looking to make a transfer. He’s got his bag slung over his shoulder, the stiff fabric bulging comically because of how the large duffel overwhelms his little body.

Deimos shrugs and scowls at the floor, like he doesn’t want to admit I’ve bought him what’s a relatively expensive ticket, or that he’s following me along on a trip like we’re two honeymooners. I’m a bit flustered at the idea, thinking about it.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Look me up if you have time?” Ethos asks. He smiles, hopeful about it, cheerful in a way that says he doesn’t expect us to, blushing in a way that says he knows why. He’s had to put up with us since the beginning, so I don’t blame him.

It’s awkward sort of not hugs all around, with Deimos still looking at the ground and Ethos unsure of how to get an arm around me, so we just sort of press together and hope for the best. Ethos takes off, looks back to wave, continues walking with his bag slapping up against his thigh like it’s going to knock him down. Deimos refuses to stop staring at the floor, so I almost start to take his arm before thinking better of it. The tips of his ears are bright red as he follows after me, heading off in the direction of our own transfer shuttle.

We spent a few hours at the gate, seated in the uncomfortable chairs, not talking since he’s so quiet all the time, not the sort to engage in small talk to fight boredom. I read on my tablet instead, or pretend to at least, staring at the words until they lose meaning, glancing over at Deimos to see him just watching the people go by, impossible to tell what he’s thinking by the blank, disinterested face.

Eventually we board, find our seats, Deimos letting me lead the way since I have the tickets. I wanted to surprise him with first-class accommodations, but I can’t, not at what it costs, not since I’m having to pay for his ticket as well as my own. It’s just coach seats, cramped and uncomfortable things, rudimentary with a slight recline and barely enough legroom, easier for him than me since he’s so small. I wish it was better, first class all the way, something of a real treat for him.

I’m surprised he looks nervous, shuffles around and insists that I take the window seat even though I’d prefer the aisle, even though I thought he’d want the window for when we land. He leans back, closes his eyes, ignores me without seeming like it, anxious all the way through in a way that’s baffling.

It’s a long flight, longer still because he’s so quiet, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep even though I don’t think he really is. They schedule these so you can sleep, because it’s such a long trip, with the lights dimmed low and the cabin quiet. I recline back, watch him for a while, try to read more, realize he’s watching me, turn my head toward him so both just look at each other, don’t say anything, don’t mind that it’s quiet.

I’m actually asleep at the end, when I get woken up by the feel of Deimos pressed closed, leaning over me. His hand presses at my hip, casual and comfortable in a way that’s fluttery, him straining to see out the window with big, huge eyes gone rounder than the Earth itself, slowly rushing into view so that it’s just a curvature and wisps of white in all the blue-green beauty. His mouth parts, lips gape, silent about it but clearly transfixed, so that his face alone is worth the cost of the extra ticket.

He gets nervous again once we’re landed, once we stand and stretch our legs, wander off the shuttle and into the port. He seems unsure of his own feet, timid with his steps, falling further and further back so I have to go after him, get an arm around his shoulders, pull him out of the crowd and ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me, and then slowly realizes we’re near a window. His face turns toward it, toward where the afternoon sun is streaming in through the glass, so he seems like a sunflower, stark-still and staring.

“Is it the gravity?” I ask. I’m suddenly anxious about it, wondering if he’ll be all right. Some colonists don’t adjust to the difference, just like some terrans can’t adjust to colonial life. I’d rather not have to haul him into a hospital for gravity-sickness, ship him back into space so he’ll be safe.

He starts to nod and then shakes his head, slow, forcing his eyes away from the window. “Fine,” he says. Quietly rasping it, eager to have me believe him, the lighting bright enough that I wonder if he’s really gone such a sickly ashen color or if I’m imagining it.

“Tell me if it isn’t,” I say. “Deimos? Tell me if—“

“Fine,” he snaps. Flushes, embarrassed by the heat in his voice, caught in something awkward. “Just – never been here before,” he says. Mumbles it, practically, incoherent like I didn’t think his quiet little voice could be, because he’s turning some delicate shade of scarlet.

He isn’t shaky-legged and stunned because the gravity’s making him sick, he’s just awed at the whole experience, a little kid in a candy store, everything a bit too real and we’re just inside a stupid fucking space port. I smile, so he scowls at me, hunches his shoulders because he’s even more embarrassed, and I stop smiling, make an effort to ignore him so he isn’t uncomfortable. Can’t resist curling the tips of my fingers into his, barely holding his hand as I lead him through the port so we can get outside, so I can show him the open sky and let him feel the wind on his face.

It could be nicer weather, for the time of year, something of a cold bite in the air despite the strong sunlight. He falters to a halt again, head tipped back, staring up at the sky with big, round eyes. He’s blocking traffic, getting bumped with it, and he’s so small that I’m afraid someone might knock him over. I have to lead him aside again, get him where he isn’t in the way, let him stare and stare until the shock wears off, until he starts to get flustered by his reaction.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” I say, trying to be nice. My voice comes out rough, hoarse, because I’m not even looking at the sky, I’m looking at him.

He shrugs, looks at the ground, ears gone pink again. I want to kiss him so badly, want to take him out somewhere nice and put him into the soft grass, make love to him under the sky, because he is so beautiful and never realizes it, gets flustered when I try to tell him, gets upset if I try to insist. I have to tell him with my body instead, tell him in a way he understands.

I take his hand, pull him aside, tuck him into a taxi stand where we’re not so visible, where it’s quiet. I put my hand into his hair, bring his face up toward mine, bend over him and kiss him deep, so his dark lashes flutter against his dusty cheek, so his little hand clutches at my sleeve and small noises rise in his throat. I press my hips to him, let him feel how hard I am just from seeing him stare at the sky, seeing him look so beautiful and mesmerized by it, so I’m mesmerized by him just like he is by the big blue open sky.

He pushes at me, just slightly, turning his face away with the gesture. We’re both still in our uniforms, we’re not alone, he doesn’t want to do this here, doesn’t want to seem like we’re together in public. I can understand that even if I don’t like it, even if I don’t care who sees us. Two fighters out on leave together, it isn’t exactly common, isn’t exactly rare, but I won’t force him. I won’t embarrass him anymore. I back away, let him fuss at his jacket and comb his fingers through his hair, smoothing forward the bangs where I mussed them.

I’m tired from travel anyway, probably couldn’t keep it up long enough even though he makes me hot and bothered, so it’s best we keep going, get to the hotel I picked out that’s just into the city, just close enough to take a taxi and just far enough to be nice. It doesn’t take long to flag down a cab, get our bags slung into the trunk and arrange ourselves in the back.

He’s plastered to the window the whole trip, staring at the other cars on the road, the approaching skyline, the tall trees that are so much greener than the scraggly ones they put in the colonies. When we have to cross the river, when he sees the ribbon of water, there’s a noise from him, something that sounds almost strangled.

“You boys in from the colonies?” asks the taxi driver. Because it’s obvious, what Deimos is doing, and I have to try and keep a straight face as I answer the man, let him thank us for our service, wonder if he’d be half so agreeable if I jerked Deimos off right there in the backseat so he could really hear some little noises from the quiet fighter.

I try to carry both our bags when we get to the hotel, but Deimos scowls at me and snatches the strap of his, glares like I’ve tried to insult him. He’s so insistent about the strangest things, ruthlessly independent sometimes, but there’s the flip of it, when he gets so needy it tears me up inside, makes me warm and soft so I’d do anything for him. We have to get up into our room before I make a mess of things right here in the lobby, and I put my duffel at such an angle that it hides the half-hard press of my cock into my pants.

It’s nothing fancy, I couldn’t afford fancy for the first night, since I knew we’d be exhausted by the trip and just looking to sleep. In the elevator, when we’re alone, Deimos looks up at me with a curious sort of look, almost frowning, eyes serious, like he’s thinking about something that has him twisted up in puzzled knots. He realizes I’m watching him and almost smiles, the corner of his mouth just slightly curling. He sets his hand in mine, scratches at my palm, lets me go as soon as the doors open on our floor even though there’s no one there.

There’s a bed, easily three times the size of our bunks on the Sleipnir, even larger than the beds on the station, and just the one bed. I didn’t bother with the pretense of booking a double, even if it meant the lady at the front desk eyed us sideways when we checked in, two fighters in uniform, her looking at Deimos the longest since he’s so small, delicate features, pretty and sweet if you can’t see all his edges, don’t know how tough he really is.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even blink or look askance at it. He just sets his duffel into the corner, stretches his arms up over his head. He looks at the window, hesitant as he reaches for the draperies. It’s not much of a view, just a section of the neighboring building, barely any sky at all, and his back is to me so I can’t see his face, can’t see how disappointed he must be. I should have gone for fancy anyway, gotten something against the water, booked a honeymoon suite just to make him blush and smile. I didn’t think about this being his first night on Earth, about how I should make it special.

“Sorry,” I tell him. I set my bag down. “It’s just for tonight.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the line of his shoulders is stiff, his hand knotted into the curtains.

“And we don’t have to stay here,” I rush to add. “We can get a different room. Or a better hotel if you want.”

I think maybe he won’t respond, that I’ll have to go over and pry him from the window. Slowly he shakes his head. His eyes are soft when he turns to me, a smile on his face. He tips his head toward the window, invites me to come look without saying a word. I cross the room to stand next to him, but the view is still the same, hard industrial lines like every colony view, not at all what I wanted him to travel all this way to see.

He puts an arm around my waist, presses close to my side. His head tips into me so it’s sweet, so I takes my breath away with how sweet he is, like if he were a cat I’d suspect he’d be purring, and there it is, a little hum from him, the sort of contented sound he makes when we’re together. I look closer at the window, trying to figure out if there’s something to it I’m not seeing, but it really is atrocious, the neighboring building blocking out anything of interest.

“Fine,” he says. His little rasp, rougher than usual, quieter than normal. “Like it.”

I realize he’s gotten into the sun, that’s what he’s so happy about, the steady sunlight glinting through the window and setting the darker undertones of his skin into a glow. He looks up at me, eyes bright, mouth curled as he tips toward me.

He’s soft, sweet, plying affection at me with his lips. He turns into me, rising up on his toes, curling his fingers into my hair and bending me down so he can reach me. The kiss breaks so he can nudge at me with his nose, lick the side of my neck and then inhale, so the air rushes over the wet trail in a way that’s hot and cold at the same time. His arms fold around my shoulders, face buried against me, sweet and affectionate so that it’s breathtaking.

It’s slow and lazy because we don’t have anything else to do, no briefings or trainings, just us alone in a room with a big bed. I don’t put him into the bed, however, I keep him there by the window. I ease him off my neck, fold his little hands into mine, kiss him sweet because he’s sweet. He’s so small and fragile, tough and dangerous, and I can’t believe he’s mine, that I have him here with me, that I get him all to myself for a week.

I put him against the window, pin him to the sunlit-heated glass with my body, and I feel him shiver in a way that’s good. He arches against me, puts his hands into the glass and nuzzles the back of his head into my shoulder. I loosen his belt, unfasten his pants enough to get a hand down them. His chest hitches, gasping without making a sound, as I rub my palm down the stiff line of his erection. He reacts beautifully, getting even harder, hips flexing into the glass, into my hand.

He reaches for me as well, but I bite his ear, just hard enough to draw him up short. He shivers again, sets his hand against my hip instead and pulls me forward so I grind against his ass through the layers of our clothes. His cock swells into my hand, straining and leaking, so that when I pump him it’s slick and decadent.

I wonder if they can see us in the next building, if there’s anyone looking out at the grey shadow of two fighters against the glass. It’s a thought that makes me grind against him again, pinning him helplessly into the window, so that he pants and nods, tries to kiss whatever of me he can reach. I give him my mouth, prod him open with my tongue. I keep one hand over his cock, stroking him, and slide the other under his shirt, across the taut splendor of his belly and higher, across the plane of his chest. I find his nipple with my hand and run the rough callus of my thumb against the sensitive nub.

He moans into my mouth, around our entwined tongues, and I plunge deeper, pump faster, pull him against my chest at the same time that I press forward, let him feel how hard I am for him, how hot he makes me feel. It’s warmth all over, the sunlight against us, him breaking the kiss to gasp air, pant against my lip. He kisses me again quick and frantic as he writhes into my hands, begging for it.

“Aahn!” His voice lifts into a cry, so soft and sweet. I love when he starts to talk like this, when I really start to make him feel good. It’s not words, just sound, his pretty face scrunching around the noises in a way goes straight to my dick, makes start to fumble my pants open. I thought I wouldn’t, thought I’d be too tired, but he’s talking now and I can’t stand not being inside him while he does it.

There’s lube in my bag, but it’s all the way across the room, and he’s so hot and eager. I slow things down anyway because I want this to be good for him, don’t want to rush things when we don’t have to. I pull him back from the window, stumble us toward the bed. He’s flushed and breathless, eyes soft, all over me with kisses, trailing his hands into my hair, down my neck. He tries to get my jacket off, tries to help with the clasp of my belt, so we’re a tumbling mess of limbs and clothes on the bed.

I lean for my bag, almost crawling over the bed, and he’s got my pants by the ankles, pulling them from me. It’s a delicate act of balancing, slapping my hand at the duffel’s zipper, rolling as he tugs the fabric so I don’t fall entirely, and I hear him laugh as he watches me. 

He has the prettiest laugh, so breathless and delicate, rough-edged like his voice but even rarer. It cuts off quick, same as always, and when I get the lube in hand and look back to him, he’s got one hand over his mouth, hiding the pretty little sound. He hates it, hates his laugh, hates so much about himself that it drives me crazy sometimes. I don’t point it out, don’t want to fuss, not when I’ve got him in the bed like this, when he lowers his hand and reaches for me, pulls me to him.

I strip the last bits of clothes from us both and then kiss his stomach, swirl my tongue into the divot of his belly button, so it makes him squirm and almost laugh again. He arches his back, jutting at me with his erection, almost impatient for me to stop teasing and get to work. I slide lower, kiss at the crook of his thigh, rub my big hand into the curve of his ass and make him shift against the pillows. He spreads his knees, lifts them into the air for me.

His cock is still slick from earlier, still straining and weeping as I start to lick at him, kiss, fondle him with my lips and swallow him into my throat. I reach for the lube, thumb the lid open with a practiced gesture. He jumps when I touch the cool wet of the lube against him, press my finger at his entrance but don’t push in, just gliding over him slowly.

He gasps little cries, teeth clicking as he bites them down again. I love the way his hips flex, the way he thrusts into my mouth when I pull away, begging for me. I can’t take him all the way down, not like he can to me, I’m not as good at this as he is, but I rasp my tongue over the head, taste the sweet salt of his slit, wait until he’s gasping before putting my finger into him, working through the tight resistance.

He’s so tight, so hot, I could shoot right into the sheets at the sounds he’s making. I keep my mouth on him, try to mimic some of what he does for me. He pushes down on my finger, just so hot and eager, his little body starting to writhe again so I have to be careful, have to slow so he won’t burst.

I want to take my time, splay him open, fuck him with my fingers so he’s begging for it without using words, but I’m so hard for him. We have all night, we have all week, but it’s been long enough that I don’t mind prepping him quick, slicking my fingers into him. It’s better with the lube, I’m glad I thought about it, it isn’t something we normally have on hand like this.

I angle my fingers, pressing and rubbing until I find the spot that makes him go wild, makes him arch his back, thrust into my mouth. He slips deep enough that I have to pull my head back, swallow hard, keep my lips around the tip so he can’t do it again.

“Aahn!” High pitched this time as he tosses his head over the pillow, crazy for me in a way I love, snipping at the air and fisting a hand into the sheets. I push harder, faster, tormenting him with the press and slick of my fingers so that his cries drop into low moans, his breathing goes ragged and erratic.

He tries to warn me, shoves his hand into my hair, pushes at me in a way that’s weak and fumbling. Like I don’t know what I’m doing, like I don’t want him off from my hands and mouth. I want to feel him clench around me, want to taste him spurting.

“Praa-aah. Aaah!” Not able to get my name out, fisting his hand into my hair so it almost stings but I love it, love seeing him lose control like this. His chest hitches, his shoulders roll into the bed, his head tips back and hips come forward and, fuck, he’s so hot and tight around me. I let him out of my mouth, switch my hand from his ass to his cock, pulling the orgasm from him.

I position myself between his legs, quick about it, before he’s done, while he’s still panting and whimpering. I’m shaking with it, wanting him so bad, prodding at his thigh before getting into him. And he’s still spurting, still thrashing, as I thrust in, all the way in, hard and fast so he actually gets loud, yelps, although it’s quiet compared to the noise I make, the way I say, “Oh, _fuck_!”

I give him just a few thumping heartbeats to adjust, to make sure he’s okay. He’s so beyond okay, so hot, still twitching against my belly that I move, shift forward, smearing his come between us with the motion. I fold my mouth over his, swallow his sweet, breathless little cries, nip at his lower lip. I put my hand behind his shoulders, lift him toward me, hold him there while I find a rhythm that’s smooth, less jerking and more gliding, deep and long thrusts so he keeps moaning, starts to get hard again.

“God, baby, you’re so good,” I tell him. Whisper it right into his ear, so he whines at me, clutches his hands into my back. He almost claws at me, his little fingers sharp, digging into the sheen of sweat, the play of muscles. I’m just as wild for him as he is for me, desperate like we haven’t got all night for this, haven’t got all week, and it’s such an intoxicating thought.

I bite at his neck, just softly, set my lips into beat of pulse. I can mark him f I want, bruise his skin so everyone can see he’s mine. I groan into his shoulder, thinking about marking him, too excited by the idea to do it, so afraid I’ll bite him hard and hurt him. He clutches at me, brings his hips against mine, matching my rhythm with urgency. It’s fast now, I can’t be slow with the way he’s so tight and hot, tight all the way deep so it’s good.

“Pra-Pra-ah-axis!” He gets it out, says my name, so the breath leaves me in a rush, so I get my mouth over his neck and suck, hard, wanting to pull my name from him again, wanting to drink his soft cries. It works, he does it, gasps and moans and cries, “Praxis! _Praxis_!”

I release his neck, brace myself against the bed and go at him hard, still gentle with it because I could never hurt him, burning for him and wanting him to know it, wanting him to feel all the way deep how good he makes me feel. I see the dusty flesh turn red and darken where I sucked on him, where I marked him, and I’m shaking and panting, getting close.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, Deimos, you’re—“

“Nng!” He’s back to making noises that aren’t anything and it’s all the fucking hotter, because I love when he talks no matter what he says. He’s hard against me, eager and weeping, hands knotted over my back because he won’t pump himself no matter how hot and bothered I get him, because he never does when I fuck him, because I’m the one who makes him feel good.

I shift, sit up slightly so I’m leaned over him less, so I can penetrate deeper, hard thrusts that make his lashes flutter and cheeks flush. I put my hands on his hips, pull him to me, kneeling between his legs and supporting his slight weight, thumping into him so there’s the sound of it, the slap of flesh. I’m tight and ready, straining, barely able to keep the motion steady, the rhythm smooth, until I find the right angle, until his legs twitch and his hips jerk and his little cries sharpen.

“Yeah.” I breathed it out, satisfied, thrilled to have found the spot again. I keep him there, pump deep, change so it’s to shallow just to make him squirm and moan. His chest is flushed, his cheeks are flushed, he’s warmth all the way through and so fucking tight, so good. I tell him, “Deimos, baby, come again for me. You’re so pretty when you come.”

I push into him, unrelenting, keeping my orgasm at hand just so I can watch him get closer. He won’t grab his cock, won’t stroke himself over the crest, he’ll let me give it to him because he knows I’ll make it good, I’m telling him I’ll make it good. He knows I’ll wait, that I can keep this pace forever, that he’s so fucking hot but I’m strong. I’m going to make this good for him.

But, oh, damn, is he so fucking hot, so tight, I’m so hot and tight for him, so hard and ready. “You want it, baby?” I ask him, desperate now, voice shaking. “I want it. I want you. Fuck, baby—“ Shit, it’s getting hard to talk, hard to keep focused, hard not to just let go and fill him, buck wildly with release, come deep inside him and make him mine all the way down.

I pant, swallow, push into him. Deep thrusts, hitting at the angle that makes his dark lashes flutter. “God, baby, love you, want you. Fuck, nnngh – Deimos, you want—?“

It does it, ends him, makes him shudder and whine, hands spasming into the sheets, twisting the fabric, back arching, mouth stretching with a cry that’s nothing, that makes my balls so tight, so hot. He shudders over the bed, the most fucking beautiful thing, it’s such a perfect face he makes, there’s absolute music in his pretty voice. I get to see him, get to watch him, he comes so hard, spurting over his chest and belly, it’s so fucking beautiful.

I bring my hips forward, bury myself, shudder right along with him, let go of restraint and fill him deep like I want. It’s heat all the way down, wet all the way down, pumping into him so he overflows, so it’s slick, so it’s smooth, gliding in and out of his tight, sweet ass that’s so fucking hot I can’t stand it. He goes limp, chest working up and down, breathless in a way that’s beautiful, and I’m still moving in and out of him, still got him held in my hands. I roll my head back, moan, finish filling him and just keep in him because I can, because he feels so good. Keep pushing at him until the motion slows, until my thighs are burning, my hands shaking, until I have to stop.

He falls free of me, plastered to the bed with boneless, sated exhaustion. He’s trembling all over, weak with it, so fragile and perfect that I take him in my arms, stretch against his side, pull him against me.

“Aah,” he breathes, nuzzling close.

“Mmm.” I close my eyes, relish the moment, blank-headed in a way that’s wonderful, made stupid by how much I love him, how hard I came for him.

We wrap over each other, try to catch our breath and still try to kiss. Lazy with it, lips barely together, puffing the same air until he rolls his head away, sighs deeply. Content and happy, so I feel warm and fluttery, so I bite at his hair and laugh shakily, softly. I kiss the spot where I marked him, wonder what he’ll think when he sees it in the mirror.

“Hmn? Aah.” It’s like he’s forgotten how to talk, like I’ve fucked the words right out of him, and it’s a shivery-good kind of thinking. I rub at his thigh, working out the shaking muscles so it makes him give throaty approval. “Mmm,” he says. “Shower?”

“You first,” I say. Sigh with it, content, not wanting to go anywhere, not wanting to move. Not sure I could move anyway, bones melted into pleasure.

He gets up on an elbow, brushes his fingers into my hair. There’s definite slyness in the way he asks, “Together?”

I snort. “Baby, I’m done. That was too good. You wore me out.”

He pinches my hip, smiles in a way that’s wicked. “Didn’t say we’d fuck.”

 I find the curve of his bottom with my hand, pat so it bounces. “Like I’d be able to resist this if you get slicked up and wet.”

He pinches me again, laughs quietly and forgets to be embarrassed about it. He shifts away from me, scoots toward the end of the bed. “Didn’t say I’d let you.”

I snort again, close my eyes and lie there listening to him walk across the room, go into the bathroom. I hear the rush of the shower, and then his words actually sink through the hazy afterglow. I smile, even though he can’t see, feel warm all over, chest tight with it. When I think my knees will actually hold my weight if I try, I get up and stagger into the bathroom after him.

He’s got his eyes closed, head tipped into the spray, scrubbing the white shampoo lather out from the sheen of his dark hair. His eyes pop open when I step in with him, pull the curtain closed so we don’t get the floor wet. He smiles, just slightly, so it wouldn’t even be a smile on anyone else, and tips his head back into the water. I take his shoulder, turn him slightly, so he’s still under the spray but I can rub at his hair instead, wash the suds out for him. Makes him hum, just softly, wouldn’t be a sound for anyone else.

He’s done now, that was the last thing he needed to get clean, and he shifts so I can get under the water instead. He stays in with me, idly scrubbing the soap over my back, handing me the shampoo so I don’t have to hunt for the tiny bottle. Even though I love the sight of him wet and dripping, we don’t do anything more than kiss, and that just the once, before he gets out.

“Leave you a towel,” he says. He’s being talkative, more than usual, so I know I’ve made him happy and feel safe, told him he’s pretty enough times with my body and my voice that maybe he can believe me for a little while.

“Thanks,” I say. Like we couldn’t get more towels, like this is the Sleipnir or the station when we sometimes had to share. I try to run the hot water out, just to see if I can. Steam rises, unending, I can’t drain the tank, and it’s wonderful.

At last I shut the water off entirely, step out and find the towel he’s picked out and set close for me. He came in again at some point, set my eye patch on top the towel, because I think he’s figured out I don’t like having it off, that I’m still not used to it, even though it’s one of those things I’ve never mentioned. It’s such a sweet gesture, such a small thing, but it makes me feel warm inside all over again.

I find him sitting cross-legged on the foot of the bed, scrolling through the television channels. He’s wearing something civilian, a baggy shirt that’s so many sizes too big for him, faded lettering across the front that I can’t read but want to, because I’m so curious about him. The idea of seeing him out of uniform for the entire week is almost too much, makes me shy about finding something comfortable among what I’d packed.

I decide on a boxers and a white undershirt, since he’s not even wearing pants, and join him on the bed. He’s settled on the news, changes it once the headlines switch to being about the war, tosses the controller aside when I stretch out on the bed, nudge the top of my head into his thigh. He lays down at well, flat on his back, so I can sit up and read the front of his shirt. It’s Cyrillic, so I have to stare longer than I intend in order to understand it, and he notices. Brings his arms over his chest, crossed defensively, like he can hide it from me.

I’d only gotten the first half of it anyway. Don’t ask him why he has a band’s tour shirt from several years before he could have possibly been born, why it looks so faded, why it’s clearly too big for him, why it’s probably just something cheap he found to laze around in. He still looks defensive, like I care about his ratty second hand lounge gear, like he doesn’t look adorable with the shirt hem around his thighs, no pants, not even underwear, just clean skin and the soft, faded shirt.

I kiss his cheek, pull the loose neck of the shirt aside to kiss the jut of his collarbone, rub my hand over his crossed wrists until he lowers them, becomes sweet again, cuddles up to me in a way that’s affectionate.

We lay together for a while, until I get hungry, ask if he is, order room service because I don’t want him to put on pants. Eat in the bed because we can, find a movie to watch and then another when that one ends, him cuddled up into me, my arm around his shoulders, the bed soft and warm, his body soft and warm against me, so pretty and perfect.

 

 

\-----

Nothing_but_the_Rain recorded [audio](https://soundcloud.com/kantgirl/vac) of this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

I wake with Deimos twisted up into me, his quick little breaths hot and raspy against my neck. I’m disoriented for a moment, unable to place any of the shadows or the grey, predawn light bleeding through the gaps in the curtains. The sounds from Deimos are starting to lift into whines, starting to hurt me, because I hate when he gets like this, hate the tender, bleeding wound my heart becomes.

I’m scared to wake him too abruptly, scared worse by the soft little whimpers he’s making. So quiet, because he’s always quiet, all the more terrible for it. He shifts some, pushing against me with meek feebleness, head rolling off my shoulder as he makes a slow, uneasy flop on to his back.

I brush my fingers through his bangs, whisper at him, only get insistent when I can tell he’s getting worse, breathing faster, tighter, panicking so desperately. And then it stops, he actually stops breathing, chest hitching like he wants to, shoulders flexing into the mattress as his whole body seems to struggle.

“Deimos!” I’m starting to panic now, can’t stop myself from shaking him. I need him to wake up, I need him to breathe again, I can’t watch this happen to him—

And then he gasps awake, eyes popping open, fighting at me at first but I’m fast about it, I let him go quick and put my hands up, let him see me backing away. “Deimos!” I say quickly. “It’s me.”

He stops, nods, pulls himself shakily upright. He’s rushing air in and out with a wheezing sound, wide-eyed in the darkness. “Aah, aah…” Like he’s trying to talk, not just gasping for air but I think he’s trying to say something.

He reaches for me, so I try to hug him, but he pushes me away just as quick, shoving at my shoulders with panicked insistence. He splays a hand over his throat without touching it. I see him close his eyes and shudder, breathe deep in a way a that’s forced, in a way that tells me he’s trying desperately to calm down.  

“Shh, hey, Deimos, it’s okay,” I hush it at him slow, try to be soothing. “Baby, it’s okay, you just had a nightmare. You’re okay.”

He nods. “Saah.” He opens his eyes, darts a gaze around the room. “Sssaaa—“

Breathless, so hushed, it’s just air that he’s giving me, hardly any sound to it all, but I hear him plain enough. I know what he’s trying to say. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t hurt me.” He did once, before I learned to be careful, he flailed awake and cracked my nose bloody.

He slides toward me, slow, nestling up against my chest. I can feel him trembling, and I’m the one not breathing when I dare to set my arms around him again. He leans into me more, breath still a little quick but starting to settle, he’s starting to calm. I let out a relieved sigh, kiss the top of his head.

“Sssaaa—“ The little quavering pluck of his hand falls against my ribs, so it’s almost ticklish. “Prah—“

“Deimos, it’s okay,” I say. Almost pleading it at him. I love when he talks, but he sounds so miserable, so awful, I can’t handle how wretched the little noises are.

I reach behind us and pull up the pillows into a big pile again. I lean back against them and bring Deimos along, get him settled into my side. He’s pliable but tense, almost mechanical in the way he accepts my affection, so I know he’s upset. It’s more than just the nightmare that’s bothering him, but I can’t figure it out.

I’m wide-awake now. We went to bed early, tired from traveling and the time shift, the fall of night on Earth triggering something irresistible. I move my hand up and down Deimos’ arm, content to hold him, trying to rub comfort into him with the motion. I look to the nightstand, and it takes some stretching around Deimos to reach the bottle of water sitting there.

He shifts, pulls himself upright a little to accept water. “Saa, aahn—“ He gasps a little, still so breathless and soft-spoken, his little whisper gone entirely ragged. He drinks deeply, throat flexing. Looks down and says, so quietly, “Sorry.”

“I’m not upset,” I say. I can’t figure out why he looks so devastated. I’m worried, wondering what he dreamed about, if he’s still confusing what happened in his nightmare with what’s happening now. I ask it gently, pleading at him some, trying to let him know with a gentle touch and even softer voice that I’m not mad, that everything’s okay. “Why are you apologizing?”

His shoulders lift and lower, so small, so fragile. I don’t know what’s wrong and it’s driving me crazy to find out, but I have to be patient, have rub my hand over knee and wait for him to gather his words and speak. It’s precious, a gift, I never take the rarity of his voice for granted. I have some idea of his deep reluctance to speak, especially after the dreams in which he’s choking. He’s always so quiet afterward, more than usual.

I carefully ask again, “Deimos? Baby, why are you sorry?”

He can’t look at me as he says it.  “Didn’t want – to ruin this.”

I clench my jaw and swallow. It hurts, hurts deep, what he does to me when he gets like this, when I’m the one who’s choking with just how much I care about him, how much I want him to be happy. He tears me up inside sometimes, makes me want to desperately to protect him from everything when I can’t, when half the things that bother him are up in his head, all his self-loathing and guilt, the way he can’t ever love himself, can’t see anything in himself worth loving.

I put my hands over his, take the bottle of water from him. I screw the cap back on and toss it over to hang out next to the television remote on the other side of the bed. I pull him into me again and sink low into the pillows so I can kiss the side of his face, cup my hand over his cheek. I scratch my fingers into his hair and keep our faces close. He’s looking away, not rejecting me but wary all the same.

“Deimos.” I make sure he’s paying attention, nudge at him with my leg and press my lips into the soft little corner of his eye. His face crinkles when I do that, it tickles him, but he’s trying and failing to be cranky, sulky, mad at himself for spoiling our vacation with a nightmare.

“Deimos,” I say. “You haven’t ruined anything.” I have to stop myself from asking why he would think that in the first place. I don’t want him to hear it as an accusation, for him to let it sink into all his guilt and loathing. I pet at him, nuzzle my lips into him. “I’m so happy to be here with you. It doesn’t matter to me if you had a bad dream. It’s okay, Deimos.”

He looks unconvinced, still worried and petulant, still hating himself for something entirely beyond his control. I almost want to shake sense into him, but I don’t. I would never. Deimos is still so unsure sometimes, still acts like no one’s ever been good to him, loved him like I try to love him. It breaks my heart to think about, because I think it might true, and makes me want to be even gentler with him. He deserves kindness, and I just wish he knew that.

I tell him, “You know, I have bad dreams, too, sometimes.”

It makes him look at me, curious, still tense but starting to relax. I play at him with affection, little nudges and rubs, hoping that he’ll soften into sweetness and cuddle me back.

“It’s true, I do. And sometimes, I can’t even sleep. I get all knotted up inside and anxious. I just lay in bed for hours staring at the ceiling. When I was growing up I used to get it so bad I’d actually make myself sick, have to spend all night over the toilet.”

He sits up some, eyes bright with sudden concern, so sweet with it that it takes my breath away. He strokes at my forehead, his little fingers tickling through my hair. The intensity of his gaze searches over me, pleading without words, startling me it.

I get flustered, start to ramble. “So, I guess, I just wanted to let you know you aren’t the only one with trouble sleeping. It doesn’t bother me. It never bothers me when you have bad dreams, Deimos.” I smile and run my hand up his arm. “I’m just happy to be in this nice big, soft bed with you.”

He shakes his head slightly, looks at me with a slight, twisting frown. I’m not expecting him to speak, not with that searching look in his eyes, but he does, he asks, “Why?”

“Well.” I can’t help but be taken aback by it. “I like spending time with you. No, I mean, I love getting to spend time with you like this. So far this has been perfect, just, everything. Deimos, I love—“

He kind of snips at me without making a sound, rolling his eyes and scratching a hand into my shoulder. “Know that. Meant.” I can see him get frustrated, the way his mouth works fretfully into a frown, the sharp line between his brows. He doesn’t want to talk, he never wants to talk after the dreams where he’s choking. “Meant, why worry?”

“Oh.” This is strangely not going at all like how I expected it. “Just. Reasons.”

It’s exceptionally vague, and he doesn’t press me on it. He just wavers uncertainty with his expression before lowering down beside me, cuddling up sweet and affectionate like I wanted. His arm goes over my chest, his leg over mine, and his head pressed up into my shoulder. I’m wide-awake still, so I lean over and find the remote.

I turn on the television and thumb the volume down low. There’s nothing much on, but I feel Deimos’ head shift up so he can watch as well.  I try to find something moderately interesting, but there’s only an old black and white movie, some infomercials, a documentary on lions, something about home renovations—

Deimos sets his hand over mine, nudging my thumb away to change it back over to the documentary, and he’s back asleep before even the commercial break. I hold him against my chest, let him sleep, delighting in the soft feel of him cuddled up close, breath sweetly puffed against my neck. The sun rises up over the horizon, cresting the room first in deep reddish glow and then lazy orange brilliance. I get a warm feeling all over, thinking about showing Deimos the sunset tonight, and I’m still thinking about that strange shift occurs between being asleep and awake, so I must have slept, but don’t really remember it. It’s nice all the same. 


End file.
